When you were a kid—you built sand cities outlined in hose water, drew languages as constellations, breathed souls into imaginary friends.

Your childhood expanded around you in cosmic rays.

But as an adult, you worry about structure, trendiness, believability. You fear that, when given a cardboard box, you won’t know what to do with it. Maybe fill it with junk.

So promise yourself—with complete abandon—to own the words on this backlit screen. If you write about people who create spaceships and surreys and sailboats out of boxes—then you remember your childhood. If you write about people with magic and heart and fear—you follow the paths of countless futures.